One for the Books
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Written for the Scrapbook 2016 Halloween Challenge - talk about a needle in a haystack.


"Okay, you need to turn left."

"Right."

"No, left."

Napoleon smirked. "That is an old joke."

"I'm an old agent." Illya pushed his glasses back into place and grinned without taking his attention from the map. "The upcoming street should be Heinz. And for the record, I was trying to lighten the situation. To think that one of our own Section Ones was a turncoat it's enough to make my stomach turn."

"Have we been able to confirm anything he told us? How do we know it's not just some flight of fantasy brought on by his impending death. How do we know any of this is real?" Napoleon signaled and then turned.

"How do you supposed it happened, Napoleon?"

"No one knows, that's the thing that has Mr. Waverly so concerned. Hamilton was this honest hardworking guy and then his wife died. Mr. Waverly said it was like day and night. Walters came back from bereavement leave a changed person and I think the Old Man regrets not asking him to take more time off or at least talk with Psych. Instead, he let Walters plow back into work. Mr. Waverly figured it was therapy."

"And somehow he managed to avoid detection all these years." Illya sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "We don't even know if he was with THRUSH before her death or not."

"He did it by knowing when to keep his mouth shut and knowing when he could let something trickle through. For THRUSH's part, they knew enough not to get greedy and try to force his hand. It was the perfect storm."

"And now he's dying."

"But at least THRUSH doesn't know that yet. Thanks to Walters' notes, we know exactly how to pass along information and give us some time to re-group."

They rode along in silence for a few minutes, then Illya murmured. "I tried to think of something that would make me betray UNCLE."

"And?"

"I couldn't come up with anything. I would leave, I would die, but I would never betray it."

"Yeah." Napoleon shut off the radio. It had been nothing but static for the last half hour anyway. "You have to wonder what happened. What did UNCLE do to incur his wrath so succinctly?"

"We will never know." Illya squinted in the waning light. "And I think another left ahead onto Del Monte. Is it just me or are all these streets names after condiment manufacturers?"

"It's just you, Illya. You are always hungry." The car caught a pot hole and jerked to the right. "Wow, this road needs serious repair work." Napoleon swerved to avoid another.

"You could let me drive."

"You needed a break and I am capable."

The houses that lined the street had seen better days. Some of the front lawns still sported a few bits of picket fencing, but the lawns were brown and dusty. Half of the trees were dead and their skeletal branches reached up as if beseeching the sky for help. Trash collected at their roots and in wind-shielded areas. They hadn't seen another person in twenty minutes.

"This must have been a lovely neighborhood once. Now it's practically a ghost town," Napoleon murmured, as if talking to himself. "I bet kids used to play in those yards while their parents chatted with their neighbors and had cook outs. Everyone knew their neighbors and thought all the bad times were behind us. It's never that easy." He sighed. "A left, you said?"

"Yes, the house will be the second right." Illya looked up from the map for perhaps the first time in a half hour. "What happened here, Napoleon? It looks like a ghost town."

"I'm guessing the local manufacturer folded and folks left or did what they could to survive. I've seen this played out up and down the Eastern seaboard." Napoleon eased off the gas and the sedan came to a stop in front of a three-story house. "I bet once it had flowering bushes and maybe even a trellis over the door. It used to be someone's home, now it's merely an abandoned dump."

"Well, Walters did say it hadn't been lived in for quite some time. After his wife passed, he moved to the city and his kids didn't want to be burdened with it. It took a war and an invading army to drive us out of our homes and people here, they just leave." Illya began to fold up the map. "There are times when I do not understand your country, Napoleon."

"I wonder what makes Mr. Waverly think that THRUSH hasn't been all over this place with a fine tooth comb."

"We don't, but there is really no reason to suspect it. After all, he was working for them." Napoleon turned off the ignition and pocketed the key. "Let's get in and see what we can find."

Illya retrieved a flashlight from the glove compartment. "We have about an hour of sun left. Maybe luck will be with us, but I have a feeling…" He passed it over to Napoleon and pulled out a second one for himself to use. He checked to make sure the batteries were good and slammed the glove compartment closed.

"Me, too." Napoleon climbed from the car and shivered in the brisk October air. "However, luck is usually on my side. It's cold here." He got his jacket from the back seat.

"Then I will follow you." Illya was pulling on his own jacket as he looked around. "Perhaps we should enter from the back and draw less attention."

"There isn't anyone around, but that doesn't mean we're not being watched. The gate for the back yard is over here. I hope it's not locked."

The gate stood firm and strong, but the fence to either side had collapsed to rest on the brittle grass. "Somehow, I don't think that will be an issue." They stepped gingerly around it and Napoleon patted his pocket until he found a set of house keys. It took three tries but he finally found the right one and with a bit of effort, the door finally yielded to him.

The air was stale and chilly. Dust motes danced in the beams of light shooting in from the non-curtained windows.

"Feels like a grave," Illya murmured as he pointed to the wall. A calendar, its bright image muted by age, declared it was August 1951. "Fifteen years?"

"It's possible. According to what I read, Walters's wife passed around that time. So we are looking for a book." Napoleon pushed aside a limp and stained ray of a curtain to stare out. Once it must have been bright and cheerful. No longer. "Let's grab it and go."

"It looks like someone just walked out of here and left everything as it was." Illya lifted something, then realized it was a petrified apple and tossed it aside. "The table is still set for a meal. There are dishes drying in the rack. No one ever came in here to burglarize it? It makes no sense."

"Don't know, Illya." Napoleon pointed to a staircase. "Why don't you take up and I'll take down?"

"And your reason why?"

Napoleon pointed upward to the stained ceiling. "You might stand a chance of not coming through the floorboards. I would step cautiously, though, just in case."

"Gee, thanks, partner." Illya and made his way over to the staircase. He tested the first one, his step sending up a _poof_ of dust. The wood held and he tried the next one. "It looks okay."

"Just be careful. The sooner we get out of here, then better."

Napoleon left Illya to his own devices and started to explore the first floor. He checked out the kitchen, paused to hurriedly pull the dust jackets off and read the faded spines of the cook books. Walters had been quite precise in his description of the book. It was grey, about ten by seven inches and two inches thick. It has white writing on the spine with the middle letters rubbed off.

"Well, with any luck you weren't much of a reader." Napoleon set the book down carefully and examined the others. Finding nothing, he left the kitchen and headed towards the back of the house.

He opened a door to discover what had once been a well-stocked pantry. From the disarray of packages, he guessed that mice or rats have taken what was edible and left the rest behind. He shut the door and moved to the next.

That door revealed a set of stairs descending into darkness. The air was stale, stinking of mold and mildew. There was a soft rustle and Napoleon decided, like the pantry, to leave the cellar to the rats and mice. Any book down there would be a lost cause.

He found the living room, a formal dining room, a sitting room and finally the study. It should have made him celebrate, but instead his stomach gave a sick lurch. There had to be literally hundreds of book, some still behind glass, others spread recklessly over the floor and furniture. It was as if someone was searching for something long ago and it had been interrupted. From the thick coat of dust, whoever it had been never returned to finish the task.

Sighing, Napoleon dug out his communicator. "Open Channel D. Illya?"

"Yes, Napoleon?"

"I think we have a problem."

Illya looked down at the desiccated bodies, still bound to their chairs and shook his head. "Correction. Two problems."

"What do you mean? I have a room full of books. What's your problem?"

"I have a room full of bodies. Want to switch?"

"What?"

"I would appear to be a family, or at least, that is the appearance."

"I'll be right there."

"When you come, stick close to the walls. There looks to be dry rot in the hall. I'm in the third room on the left."

Illya capped the communicator and went to the window to draw back the heavy drapes. He moved the cloth slowly to avoid an avalanche of dust and didn't breathe just in case. The last few rays of the sun pierced the grim-caked glass and struck the corpses.

"Who were you?" He asked one. The fact that three of the bodies were obviously children made him sick. "Who did this to you?"

"THRUSH?"

For a moment, Illya froze, then realized it was Napoleon speaking from the doorway. He crossed the room to Illya's side. "What a mess," Illya said as Napoleon neared.

"In more ways than one. Why kill an entire family and for what reason?"

"Sadly, we both know the answer to that, Napoleon. Perhaps this is what made Walters turn."

"Maybe but in my experience, take away a man's reason for living and you are left with a dangerous and unpredictable weapon. This would explain why the children weren't interested in the house."

"Wouldn't anyone come looking?

"Depends. If Walters let people think he'd moved the family to New York, no one might. If this happened around the time the town's industry left, people might have been distracted by their own burdens. Why go looking for trouble?"

"Especially when we are so good at finding it. What should we do?"

Napoleon pulled out his communicator with a flourish. "Open Channel D, please."

A moment later, their boss's voice responded, "Yes, Mr. Solo. Have you arrived at your destination?"

"We have, sir, and I would like to request a clean-up squad."

"Mr. Solo?"

"We have close to a thousand books in Walters' study and seven corpses in his bedroom."

"My word! Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, unfortunately."

"I will send them along immediately. You and Mr. Kuryakin best stay in place until their arrival."

"Understood and you might want to make sure they bring some respirators. The dust is pretty thick. Solo out."

"So what about us?" The sunlight was rapidly fading.

"Well, we can stay here or in the car. Do I have to ask?"

"In this case, no."

Illya tossed the last of the coffee out of the window and onto the dusty ground. He heard it splatter rather than see it. They'd found a little diner not far up the road and set in some provisions for the night. The coffee, bitter and strong when hot, did little to mellow as it cooled. Worse than that, the call of nature was shrieking in Illya's ear.

He glanced over his shoulder at Napoleon. His partner was in the back seat, slumbering as only an agent could sleep.

"Napoleon, I need to stretch my legs."

There wasn't even a murmur from Solo and Illya nodded. He climbed out of the car and shivered. The night was bone chillingly cold. Illya looked around, but there wasn't a light to be seen. Even the street lights were out.

Even so, Illya walked around to the side of the house, masking him from view and undid his zipper. The wind whipped around him, sending leaves scurrying by his feet. It wasn't until he was zipping back up that he saw it. There was a light moving through the house.

Illya looked back to the car and then at the light. It was heading towards the library. Decided that there wasn't time to alert Napoleon, Illya drew his weapon and headed for the back door. They'd left it unlocked, obviously a mistake.

Illya stepped into the room and stopped. The kitchen was clean. There were still dishes drying in the rack, but they were clean and shone in the beam of Illya's flashlight. The floor was spotless and there wasn't a speck of dust on the table or counters. Even the apple he'd found earlier was plump and ready for someone to take a bit of its succulent flesh.

"What the hell?" Illya pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D." Nothing but static met his attempts. The sound of someone walking above his head, made him shove it into his pocket and head in that direction.

He moved carefully, quietly, a skill honed over many years. He came to a stop on the landing and lowered himself to the floor. It smelled of wood polish.

"Dennis, stop. You don't know what you are doing."

"Don't I? Always better, always bigger, my sweet baby brother."

"Whatever you want, Dennis, you can have it. Money, power, just leave Helen and the kids alone."

"I can't do that, Donald. You see, what I want is you."

There was the crack of an unsilenced pistol and a woman screamed.

"Bastard! He was only seven. How could you."

There was a second shot and the sound of a woman keening and a man cursing filled his ears until Illya thought the sound would make him deaf. That galvanized Illya into action.

He ran towards the room and stopped. Walters stood there grinning at the bound bodies of his family and then Illya realized Walters was also bound.

"Freeze," Illya shouted, but it wasn't fast enough. The shooter let a round go into the bound man's chest and turned on Illya. Instinct took over and Illya fired. The man shrieked and dropped writhing to the floor.

Immediately, Illya ran to the bound Walters and tore off the coils of rope. He eased the man down and tore open his shirt. "Hold on, Donald. Help is coming."

The man smiled shakily and his mouth worked at forming some words, but then his head rolled to the side.

Illya released him and walked over to the moaning man. "I don't know what is going on, but I swear this ends tonight."

Walters grunted, blood dribbling from his mouth. He tried to say something, but Illya didn't even bother. Whatever the man had to say, Illya wasn't interested in hearing.

"Illya!?"

Illya looked in the direction of his partner's voice and walked back to the door. "Up here, Napoleon."

Napoleon came running up him, his face pale. "What happened? I heard the shot. Who did you shoot?"

"Walters. Or at least one of them." Illya wasn't really surprised when he turned and saw a room filled with decay. The fallen body of Dennis Walters was gone and the room was as it was.

"Are you all right, partner?"

Illya managed a tight smile. "Never better."

Napoleon dropped the report to Illya's desk and the Russian looked up from the expense form. "Napoleon, does the hotel come out of your budget or mine this time? I can't remember."

"Does it really matter?"

"You haven't met Miss Winchell from Accounting, have you?"

"Oh?"

"Rein it in, Napoleon, she is not interested." Illya returned to the forms. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"They finally were able to get some fingerprints from the corpses. One of them was Walters. I'm very confused."

"Identical twins. Donald probably went home for the weekend and his brother moved in. Killed him and his family and took their place. Set up the cover story that his wife had passed. No one argued with him or even probably checked up. You said it yourself that he came back a different man. The truth is he was. Poor Don. All these years, his brother was pretending to be him, all in the name of THRUSH."

Napoleon shook his head. "There's something else. I just wanted to let you know that after three weeks of searching, they finally found the book." Napoleon held up a thin gray-covered book.

"So, what's in it that is so important?" Illya punched a couple figures into an adding machine and scowled. "That can't be right." He tried again.

"They haven't deciphered it yet, but there's something very interesting written on the cover page that I thought you should see."

At the pause, Illya stopped again and studied him. The expression on his partner's face made him take off his glasses. "Napoleon, what's wrong?"

Napoleon carefully opened the book and held it for Illya to read.

 _Illya – thank you_.

"You want to explain that, partner mine?"

"Not in a hundred million years, Napoleon. Not in a hundred million years."


End file.
